Sieving through all that old and rotten
And downtrodden mush stuffed
And heaved into a jarred head
My dread increases with the hour
Beads of sweat trickle down
A hairy mess crested atop
Of leaves aged with fungi
And yellowed by fingers
Strumming without a stop
Even as these eyes close in fatigue
And the fingers retire
The mush screams in disbelief
Misunderstanding satire
But these ears are now
Dead to all sounds
Of whether snoring and storing
Or sorting and pouring
Through soft copies and
Hard bounds

– Akanksha Gupta (poem only)